Dream Maker (Dream Team 1)

“The end of the world as we know it isn’t funny,” I informed him.

“I’m not kidding.”

I studied his face in an attempt to ascertain if that was a lie.

He was apparently being honest.

Or he was a good liar.

He smiled at me again and said softly, “Your jewelry.”

“Right,” I muttered, turned and walked back to my bedroom.

My mind ran amok (mostly with thoughts about how soft his hair might be, then trying to stop thoughts of how soft his hair might be) as I put my little gold ball studs in my ears and one midi-ring on my left forefinger that had a line of tiny emeralds across the front.

This completed my outfit of army-green crop pants, gray scoop-necked, relax-fit tee (which I’d also given the French tuck), and the sand-colored blazer I was going to don when I got back to the kitchen.

I walked out and I did so carefully because Mag was still standing in my living room, he was watching me, and I was known to be a klutz and I did not want to date this guy, but I also did not want to make a fool of myself in front of him.

I went to the kitchen to shove my phone and lip gloss in my little bag and put on my blazer.

As my kitchen had a huge opening to the living room over a counter delineated by a column at one end, Mag asked through it, “Did you put on your jewelry?”

“Yes.”

There was a pause then, “Did good, babe. As gorgeous as you are, you don’t need much.”

My fingers stilled.

I wanted to be offended he’d called me “babe” and thought I needed his approval of my accessorizing.

All I could hear was the word “gorgeous.”

And this was the charm I needed to guard against.

The problem with that was it felt too nice aimed my way.

I didn’t know what to do, or say, so I looked down to my bag, fumbled my lip gloss, it fell off the counter, I bent to retrieve it…

And then, typical, within minutes of meeting him, I gave him a massive dose of the real Evan Gardiner.

This being, I slammed my forehead into the edge of the counter.

And that hurt.

A lot.

“Shit. Evan,” Mag called.

But I did not reply because I was in the midst of overcompensating the recovery. Staggering back, I slammed into the counter behind me, the edge of it digging painfully into the small of my back, and between the crack on my head making me dizzy and the sting in my back, I went down, flat on my ass.

Fabulous.

Mag was there in what seemed like half a second, crouching beside me, his long, strapping thighs splayed wide, his trousers molded to the curves and dips of his clearly muscular knees, his hand coming toward me.

I started to rear away from it, and he murmured, “Whoa,” and again moved fast so I banged the back of my head into his palm, which cracked against the cupboard.

I heard Nancy Kerrigan’s plaintive cry in my head, but mine had to do with why I’d given in to this date.

“Oh God, sorry,” I muttered, totally mortified.

“Just…don’t move,” he ordered, taking control of my chin and lifting it slowly.

I forced my eyes to his face to see him examining my forehead, but that close, I could see how curly his eyelashes were.

Not good.

Because they were awesome.

“Smacked yourself a good one,” he murmured.

Man.

This was just…

Humiliating.

“I think you need ice,” he went on.

“I—”

I stopped speaking because he moved fast again, doing this to pick me up.

Pick me up.

One arm under my knees, one at my upper back.

I was so stunned by this maneuver, not only him doing it, but his being able to do it, I said not a word as he walked me to my couch, laid me down on it, then strode back to the kitchen.

I heard the ice machine grinding and then he returned with a bundled dishtowel.

“Lay back,” he demanded.

I reclined against my fringed toss pillows and Mag gently set the bundle on my forehead.

“You need at least fifteen, twenty minutes of that, which means we’re gonna miss our reservation. I’ll order a pizza,” he declared. “Let me guess. Your half, veggie.”

I was not thrilled (at all) that I’d blown this date the way I had.

But one could not say I wasn’t thrilled I’d blown this date and now had a real excuse to get out of it.

In an effort to do that, I peered out from under the towel and started, “Danny—”

“Mag.”

“Sorry.”

“What?”

“What?” I parroted, because he wasn’t close, but he was not far, and I could see how curly his eyelashes were again.

“You said my name.”

“I did?”

His eyes narrowed and he stopped bending over me, holding the ice to my head, and bent into me, pulling the ice away and staring into my eyes.